


Choke

by Somandalicious



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Choking, Degradation, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-06
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-12 10:01:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29882889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Somandalicious/pseuds/Somandalicious
Summary: Sometimes, the only way to feel alive is to choke.
Relationships: Daphne Greengrass/Harry Potter
Comments: 16
Kudos: 49





	Choke

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TakingFlight48](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TakingFlight48/gifts).



> A little reward for takingflight48 for all her hard work. I also want to thank all of you that deviously encouraged this plunny, but especially sportivetricks, who gassed me up when I was feeling deflated. 
> 
> As always, my sweet beta Floorcoaster, thank you for keeping me proper and to dreamsofdramione for the gorgeous graphic.

[](https://imgur.com/qlNiKV4)

This is not a love story. There is no happily ever after. Not anymore.

This is the Tragedy of how Daphne Greengrass, a respectable witch from a respectable home, came to be on her knees in the men’s room of the Leaky Cauldron with Harry Potter’s cock shoved down her throat.

She wasn’t meant to be a disgrace, oh no. She was meant to be the apple of her father’s eye. His prim and proper daughter that was perfectly poised for posturing. She was supposed to graduate from uni with honors. She was supposed to become a pediatric Healer at St. Mungos. She was supposed to marry Theodore Nott and have 2.5 babies.

That all went to shite in a barrel. She had begged off her last class and returned to Theo’s flat for an afternoon nap. Instead she had found him balls deep in her sister.

And it was fine. She didn’t love Theo, right? He’d just been comfortable. Convenient. Safe and easy. They’d been with each other since their fourth year of Hogwarts. He was her best friend. Her soulmate. The quiet and aloof to her loud and bubbly.

Okay, it wasn’t fine at all. It was shite. He was shite. Astoria was shite.

Daphne wanted to rampage.

It was then a devious, malicious, and wonderfully petty idea struck Daphne. Astoria had had a crush on Draco Malfoy for years. He never noticed her. Daphne would do Tori a favor. She would shag Malfoy. He was good looking enough. Maybe a bit pretty for her tastes, but attractive, nonetheless. And it would be easy to seduce him. Daphne had always been pretty and adored. Doted on. She always got her way. 

And when Tori received the memory tomorrow, Daphne hoped she choked on the jealousy.

Except when Daphne showed up to the Leaky Cauldron that evening, it hadn’t been Draco’s pretty boy looks that caught her attention.

It was the disheveled roughness of Harry Potter. 

There had always been something appealing about him although Daphne could never pinpoint it exactly. It wasn’t his fame; affluence had never interested her. Or his looks, although he was incredibly handsome—Messy black locks that stood in all directions, a defined jaw that was dusted with scruff. Sinfully dangerous green eyes behind dark framed glasses.

No, it wasn’t anything so superficial. It lurked there under the surface. Something unknown. Rough. Untamed. So bloody Gryffindor 

Her heart pounded a loud, erratic beat with each step she took toward him, and as she carefully lowered herself onto the barstool, her breath caught in her throat. She could feel the slow perusal of his eyes as they studied her frame. It was too intense, too feral, too much, and her body was alight with sensation. She could feel the tightening of her nipples and the growing throb at her mons that had her shifting in her seat and rubbing her thighs together in effort to quell the sensation.

When she couldn’t stand it anymore, she turned her head toward him and met his stare.

There was no shame. He was unabashed.

Somehow, she found herself and gave him her most alluring smile.

He didn’t return it. “What’s your name?” he asked instead. 

Any other time she might feel appalled that he didn’t recognize her, but his entire presence overwhelmed her. “Daphne.”

He perked up and a boyish, yet wolfish grin spread his mouth. She caught a flash of white teeth as he murmured her last name. All right. So he did remember her.

It only made her heart beat harder.

He stood then and drained the rest of his whiskey. And fuck, he was tall, with refined shoulders and biceps. Tilting his head, he slid his gaze back to hers. “Got a bloke, Greengrass?”

She huffed with dead humor. “Not anymore.”

Harry nodded as he withdrew his wallet and dropped a few knuts onto the bar. When he turned to her, he proffered his palm. 

There was a delicious promise in his green eyes, and they glowed with the promise of a good time.

His intention was clear. There would be no small chat. No nervous lines or clever wit. He was not going to walk her home and politely kiss her cheek goodnight. Oh no. Harry Potter was going to take her home and fuck her. 

Still, the choice was hers. And she knew that if it wasn’t her, it would be some other bird. 

Suddenly, she didn’t care about propriety. She didn’t care about being coy or playing hard to get. She wanted to fuck Harry Potter. Maybe it wasn’t the revenge she sought but it would be naughty and cavalier. Just as she craved.

She let her amber eyes size him up, and she licked her lips in appreciation. Then, using her fingers to dance across his palm, she accepted his suggestion.

She expected him to covertly pull her through the crowd and up the stairs to a rented room. But instead, he gently placed his fingers at the small of her back and led her through the bar and out the back to the alley that led to Diagon Alley. She found the gesture to be sweet and gentlemanly. It told her that he would treat her right and she appreciated that. She liked being adored and loved, and who better to do so than Harry Potter, shining white knight of the Wizarding World?

Once they were out there, he spun her to face him, his eyes searched her face and he brought his fingers up to push her hair away from the curve of her cheek. “Do you trust me?”

And gods, did she. Maybe it was the whole Savior thing he had going for him. Maybe it was that she felt reckless. Or Perhaps it was just that there was nothing he could do to her that would hurt her more than she already was.

“I do,” she whispered, because really, if she couldn’t trust Harry Potter of all people, who could she trust?

And so far, trusting even her own sister had cut open her sternum and ripped out her heart. 

That boyish smile returned, and he lowered his mouth to hers. His kiss was soft at first, but then she felt his hand move from her cheek, through the strands of her tawny hair, until he wound his hand around the length and yanked.

She shivered and cried out, but not from pain. Instead she felt a warmth spread her body and every fiber of her being coiled tightly. It felt so wrong. So good. So incredibly unexpected. 

“Hold on,” he whispered into her ear before biting deeply into the flesh just below her ear.

Before she could suck in a deep breath, she was tied into a knot, and the tugging sensation in her belly button from Side-Along Apparation was a feverish juxtaposition to the boorish way his large hand palmed her breast before sliding past her waist and hip to grip harshly at the flesh of her bum.

She could only clutch tightly at his t-shirt and mew in response. She felt thoughtless and edacious—inspired and dizzy.

Swept away. Quite literally.

Just as the world began to right itself, they landed in the foyer of an old home and Harry stumbled, which caused Daphne’s weight to shift against his body. He knocked into an umbrella stand, effectively crashing it over.

Simultaneously, curtains flew open that had covered a large portrait of an old woman as she began screaming about intruders and blood traitors while Harry grimaced. “Fuck."

Releasing Daphne, he moved quickly to the portrait and closed the curtains, grumbling as he effectively hushed the screaming painting.

Making herself useful, Daphne bent and righted the umbrella stand.

When she turned back to Harry, she was surprised to find him watching her carefully. The cockiness seemed subdued—still there, bubbling dangerously below the surface—but with his hands shoved in the pockets of his jeans, and his shoulders tightly drawn, he also seemed nervous. As though maybe he wasn’t sure what to do next. 

Daphne did.

She’d always been tall with the willowy frame of a ballet dancer, and she long ago had learned how to move her body with the same grace. 

Slowly, she drew the back of her hands along the fabric of the tiny, navy, sateen dress she wore. Caressing the swell of her breast and past her clavicle until she gathered her long, pretty tawny hair. Once it was off her neck, she let her fingertips slowly trace the line of her neck and shoulder, to slip off the strap of her dress. She let her chin drop, then, and her shoulder raise, and she seductively let her eyes raise to meet his gaze.

His focus was on her hand as it fell along her breast again before skating to her back and finding the zipper. As she began to unzip, she arched her back and raised her chin toward the ceiling. Letting her tresses fall in pace with the descent of the zipper, she used her other hand to pull the other strap from her shoulder.

Harry swallowed, but his study of her never wavered.

He was a patient boy, and she rewarded him by pushing the dress past her hips with a little wiggle, until it pooled at her feet. Then, wearing nothing but pride and her strappy heels, she stood before him. Naked and exposed. 

But she didn’t care. She felt sexy, she felt cool. She felt invincible.

She didn’t realize that she was the target of the worst kind of trouble.

He crossed to her in a deadly prowl, and as he neared, the potent look in his eyes made her breath catch All she could do was retreat until her bare back met the cool wood of the front door. 

He didn’t touch her, although their bodies were only a hairsbreadth apart, but he did lean in and sniff along her neck and hairline. “You like to tease.” It wasn’t a question but an observation, with the undercurrent of threat.

She was paralyzed. This wasn’t exactly what she expected from him. Still, she had no fear, simply a burning anticipation. She _did_ like to tease. Maybe she always had, but for once she didn’t feel shameful. She lifted her chin to mark her confidence. 

He let his gaze fall to her breast and curve along her hips until it settled on the apex of her thighs.

With the way he licked his lips, it was no surprise that he moved to his knees then. Still, she shifted at his study, and when he ran his fingers up her calf, past her knee, along the plane of her thigh to the soft coppery curls between her legs. She parted for him easily, and he moved a single digit along her slit. 

Naturally, he found her wet; she’d been dewy since his perusal at the bar, but still he showed appreciation with a winsome smile.

Daphne whimpered. The touch was too soft, too delicate. She needed pressure and friction. She wanted it more than the next breath. Still, he teased. Slow, meticulous strokes, feathering along her folds. Whispers of promise building her up. Making her throb and yearn and desire. 

Then, without warning, using both palms, he seized her bottom and pulled her against his mouth, his tongue lashed out in reward. Satisfying swipes that had her panting and her fingers came down to clutch his hair.

Still, it wasn’t enough, and he knew it. He shifted and moved her leg over his shoulder, effectively opening her wider for him. And when his tongue delved into her core she cried out and ground down onto him.

He became ravenous and urgent and deliberate. A rhythmic barrage between tongue-fucking her cavern and rolling her clit between his tongue and teeth. 

She was going mad. _Delirious._ And just when the pressure built to near detonation he would change his approach and she would have to start all over once more.

In their tussle, the umbrella stand fell over again, and Daphne’s screams were joined by the rhetoric of the portrait. 

Still, he wouldn't let her come, no matter how loudly she begged or how sweetly she bargained. He was punishing her for teasing him, but she couldn’t stop asking for all of everything and so much more that she didn’t even know what she was requesting. She was a quivering, inconsolable mess against the wall relishing the torture upon her sopping quim.

Then, his fervor halted as he tore away from her. Roughly, he spun her as he stood. She reached out, a squeak of surprise leaving her, and her palms slapped the wall as she caught herself. Savagely, he pushed her cheek against the cool door, his other catching her hip and pulling her rear into his crotch. 

It became increasingly convoluted. Terrible and sensual. The acts of aggression were always scored by a sweet, delicate touch. She nearly felt cherished, but then he would rip it away by touching her so indecently that it made her revel in the degradation. She had always been adored, beloved. Revered. 

It occurred to her that maybe that had never been real or true. It had been an illusion--the worst kind of lie. Because they hadn’t loved her, and thus couldn’t cherish or revere her. They didn’t even respect her. 

But in this moment, she was carnal, raw, and more like herself than ever. It was beautiful and powerful. 

Distantly, she was aware of the sound of his belt being undone and his jeans being pushed away. She was really only focused on catching her breath and consoling herself. She thought he’d take her brutally, but again he surprised her. She felt the blunt head of his cock probing her entrance, sliding sensually against her quim. Back and forth, building that need within her. It was unlike any sensation she’d ever felt.

Once she was a quivering mess again, he pushed into her without any ado. 

Daphne never felt so full—so satisfied—and yet the intrusion made her cry out, stars bursting in her vision. 

A harsh grunt escaped Harry, giving a glimpse of his need. He wasn’t gentle or loving as Daphne was used to. Oh definitely not. He was punishing. Rough. Lecherous. Harry Potter did not make love to her. He fucked her. _Hard._ With the earnest intention of destroying her.

“Please,” she whispered. For what she was begging she didn’t know. Maybe she wanted to be obliterated. Maybe she needed to be stitched together. She wanted the sweetness she had expected. She needed the unmerciful revolution he gave her. “Harry.”

As soon as she spoke his name, his hand latched onto her throat, tight enough that she couldn’t speak again. Her heart burst with thrill and her back instinctively arched so that she could push back against him, meeting each one of his devastating pounds. 

She’d always been treated so delicately that this was a startling embrace. She thought she should feel frightened, but she couldn’t. Instead she felt more alive then she ever had. She liked the control he exerted over her. The true and exhilarating high it presented; to know that within his grasp was the power to fuck her into oblivion or snuff out her life if he so chose. 

He flexed his fingers tighter against her flesh, and she could barely breathe. She knew that his fingers would leave visible, lavender marks like a necklace. Her vision was darkening around the edges, but she wanted more. She wanted to go as far as he would take her, because somehow, she knew he would bring her back to earth before she tipped too far over the edge. He had asked her to trust him, and she would stand by her word. 

Until then, she allowed him to plunder her to the ends of space and time—to fuck her as though it was the last bit of pussy he would ever take. Like he would siphon all of the purity from her and keep it for himself.

And from the way he squeezed her and plucked her and _used_ her, Daphne knew she would have badges of soreness and discomfort. But she didn’t care, she would wear them proudly. She had never felt this invigorated--this resplendent. He took her like no one ever had before. Hard and hot flesh scoring against the deepest parts of her that had never ever been touched.

His breaths were becoming short, and his grunts frequent and she felt herself clenching around his cock as his thrusts became quicker and less rhythmic. 

Needing to touch him, she reached up and wrapped her slim fingers around his wrist. 

He pushed in deeper, and his hand at her throat barely tightened. And then, Daphne burst into a blinding everythingness. Her head swam into euphoria at a dizzying speed and her soul shot out of her in an explosion of pied lights. It was as though she had been coiled tightly for years and then finally allowed to burst free into the universe. She’d never felt so rhapsodic.

Then Harry thrust into her so hard, that his grip slipped to her hips and her entire being was jerked back into clarity. She was effectively wrecked--owned. As he emptied himself into her with a roar, she knew that she would never be the same.

He slumped against her, his breathing deep, and he stilled. She could feel herself pulsing around him and suddenly every inch of her was ultra-sensitive. 

She shifted her weight and he nudged her shoulder with his nose. “Don’t move.”

She didn’t again. Seconds blurred into minutes and moments felt like a millennia. She didn’t dare speak or move. Daphne never wanted to break the spell he had cast over them. 

Finally, he withdrew, which gave her a shiver, and she could feel the warmth of him sliding down her thighs.

It felt so dirty and wrong. Convoluted and undignified. She loved it and when she turned from the door, she meant to tell him as much. Instead, he was arranging himself back into his jeans, and looking everywhere but at her.

A cold awareness crept over her and the desolation of reality began to set in. She bent quickly to retrieve her dress, hastily dressing. The atmosphere had turned from raunchy and amazing to cumbersome. She hadn’t been in this situation before. Daphne wasn’t sure how to navigate it and she was running her fingers through her hair in an attempt to smooth the tangles when he finally spoke.

“So, ah, I've to work early in the morning.” He was standing with his side to her, his hand rubbing the back of his neck.

Wow. Message received. She didn’t expect to be cuddled after--well maybe she had hoped for some kind of affection. She didn’t expect to be cast off so quickly. Salvaging her dignity she lifted her chin and nodded whilst forcing a smile. “Of course! I’ve an early class too.”

He nodded at her and smiled in return. 

“Bye, then,” she said tartly, with a short wave of her fingers. Pivoting quickly, she rushed through the door. However, once it closed behind her, she slumped against it. She had never felt so used in her life. She felt discarded. Unimportant. 

It was new and alien to her. She struggled to wrap her head around it. The hurt and rejection bloomed in her sternum and her pride promised to never see him again.

Yet, next week, she was left dripping in a cupboard at the ministry. 

Three days later she was face down and ass up on his desk while he ate her for lunch. 

The days tumbled together and she began skipping school only for him to tie her to his bed and leave her there for hours. Their meetings became more humiliating and disturbingly degrading.

Still she craved it. She needed it. And she was addicted.

It didn’t matter that she didn’t know his favorite color or how he took his coffee. She didn’t need to know what he thought of politics or if he preferred Indian food over Thai. 

She knew the way the muscles in his abdomen bunched when he came. She knew the screaming fullness of his cock in her asshole. She knew the salt of his semen on her tongue. 

She learned other things too. Things about herself. She liked having her own flat and eating brunch with her friends. Realizing her passion wasn’t in Healing but in the beauty of a perfectly captured photograph. She loved to dance, whether it was in her pajamas with a lonely bottle of wine or against some sweaty stranger in a night club. Her confidence increased, and she found she was happier than she’d ever been. 

And as for Tori and Theo? Well they were miserably stuck together. 

She still met with Harry for their trysts. Always the same way: random, but straightforward. With no need for small talk or romance. No strings. No expectations other than pleasure and pain. 

It never occurred to her that he never kissed her. In fact, she never realized that was something they hadn’t shared since their first time together. It wasn’t until she was letting him ravage her mouth with his cock in the loo of the Leaky Cauldron and right after he emptied himself in her throat, he yanked her to her feet and kissed her sweetly. 

To be honest, it had been a chaste kiss and when he thanked her, he wiped the wetness from her eyes and tucked her hair behind her ear. 

She was frozen to the spot. Confused. Mostly she felt adrift. Because this behavior was atypical. They didn’t do this.

She was still watching him warily when he moved to the sink and washed his hands. She was still studying his movements, trying desperately to unravel his intentions. She didn’t trust his kindness and she was suspicious.

For months they’d just been using each other to get off like addicts. Chasing a high that constantly ghosted out of reach. Never had they settled into a modicum of normalcy.

Maybe this was a new game he was playing with her. Another tool to torture her, perhaps. Because there could be no other explanation.

After all. This was not a love story.


End file.
